


if it hurts

by calciseptine



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Canon - Movie, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Lube, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Size Difference, i was joking when i typed that, wow that's actually a tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo suffers an injury, Thorin imagines the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if it hurts

**Author's Note:**

> This story presupposes that Thorin and Bilbo are bumping serious uglies (much to the amusement of the rest of the dwarves). It is set about two weeks after the company leaves Rivendell, and a few days before they are captured by goblins; I'm not entirely sure how long the company spends traversing the Misty Mountains—since there is little to no sense of time in that damn montage scene—so my estimates could be on either end of the spectrum.
> 
> Thanks to [faorism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/works) and [callunavulgari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/works) for the beta! ♥

Days upon days after the company has left the safety of Rivendell, a small pack of orcs attacks.

It is an ill-advised attempt. Three orcs, each upon a warg, could be problematic if the orcs had sense enough to circle the long line of the company—one in the front, one in the back, and one in the middle to scatter and confuse—but leaderless orcs are not strategists. Bluntly and foolishly, they charge in a small cluster towards the front of the line with vicious howls and war cries.

After the initial surprise of the wargs appearing, rising like phantoms on the craggy mountain terrain, the battle is straightforward. Only when Thorin thinks back on the encounter, many hours later, does it occur to the dwarf-king that the orcs might have come upon the company as suddenly as the company did the orcs.

Thorin kills the first bristling warg with ease, his blade slicing through fur and muscle with little resistance. As the warg crumples, Dwalin hauls the orc off its back and uses his battle-axe, Keeper, to slice off its head. The second warg and rider find their ends just as swiftly as the firsts, though it is Dori who crushes the beast's skull with his mighty hammer, and Ori who blinds the orc with a well-aimed pebble as Bifur hops upon the dead warg's back, and slits the struggling orc's throat with the wicked edge of his boar spear.

The last warg is killed in tandem by Fíli and Kíli, but the orc manages to jump off the beast's back before Glóin can bring his heavy weapon down. The orc tumbles across the loose rock, rolls back onto its feet, draws its sword, and immediately sets its sight on the closest member of the company:

_Bilbo._

Adrenaline is a spike driven into Thorin's heart; he realizes, swiftly and terribly, that no one will be able to reach Bilbo before the orc does. A guttural cry rises from his belly as he sprints—as the rest of the company comes to the same conclusion and jerks chaotically forward—as the orc's blade descends.

Bilbo's grip on his own vibrant blue sword is sloppy—and why, why, _why_ did Thorin not think to teach him how to hold a weapon properly, how to block a downwards stroke, how to use his small size to his advantage, how to fight dirty or to run away—and there is a terrible screech of metal upon metal, and even over the his labored breathing and drumming heart, Thorin can hear the high, surprised noise that Bilbo makes when the blade cuts into his flesh. Another bellow is dragged from Thorin's raw throat.

Thorin does not have the retributive honor of killing the orc. A mere moment after Bilbo falls to the ground, one of Kíli's arrows buries itself in the orc's back, and a moment after that, the sharp end Bofur's mattock is embedded into its chest. Blood, brackish and thin, accompanies the orc's final and unheeded words.

The skirmish is over in less than a minute.

When he reaches Bilbo, Thorin drops to his knees, heedless of the hard ground. Orcrist tumbles out of his hand, forgotten. Terror makes his fingers clumsy and stupid as he tries to see the damage that is hidden by the clean slice in Bilbo's worn clothing. The other dwarves cluster around Thorin as he fumbles with the once fine fabric; their voices are indiscernible beneath the roar of blood in his ears.

Thorin has seen many terrible wounds and maladies in his lifetime: the burns from Smaug's takeover of Erebor, the rent flesh and broken bones from the Battle of Azanulbizar, and the diseases and starvation that plagued the harsh life of a refugee. Evisceration is one of the most terrible and torturous ways to die—Thorin has seen it. Shock creeps into his veins as he imagines Bilbo dying so slowly and painfully.

Yet even as Thorin envisions this, even as his brain prays _no, not him, not like this,_ Thorin's hand unveils the nearly unblemished smoothness of Bilbo's stomach, as Bilbo says, "Thorin, it's fine, I'm alright!" Bilbo's voice is distant, as though he were shouting from a far distance through thin, unsupportable air, and though Thorin stills, it is not because he heeds the words.

There is a thin gash on Bilbo's soft belly. It bisects his abdomen, from the bottom of the left side of his rib cage to the opposite hip. The wound is a shallow scratch; there isn't even any blood. But Thorin cannot help but think that if the blade had been just an inch deeper—

"Thorin!" Bilbo says again, louder this time, but his voice still does not cut through the numbness in Thorin's chest. Thorin cannot stop staring at the red line marring Bilbo's skin, cannot stop from thinking how terrible it could have been.

Despite the tight, persistent clench of Thorin's grip in his clothing, Bilbo still manages to sit up. He bends his chest awkwardly over Thorin's fists as he reaches up and cradles Thorin's face in his small hands. The pads of his thumbs run over the swell of Thorin's cheeks; even though the touch is a firm one, Thorin barely feels it.

"Thorin," Bilbo murmurs. Thorin can no longer see the cut now that Bilbo has moved, yet he is still paralyzed by abstract fear. The last time he felt this kind of crippling, useless panic was years upon years ago, when a small landslide buried Fíli and Kíli beneath several feet of mud and debris.

"Thorin, _Thorin,_ please look at me—"

It is nearly impossible for Thorin to drag his gaze upwards. His eyes snag on every fold of fabric, slip against the skin of Bilbo's throat, slog on past Bilbo's chapped mouth, and cling to Bilbo's short, wheat-colored eyelashes until finally—finally—his stare meets Bilbo's.

"There." Bilbo pitches his voice low, as though to soothe. "Do you see? I'm alright. It was just a scratch, Thorin. I'm alright."

And truly, Bilbo is unharmed. He had cried out in surprise when the orc attacked, rather than agony; he had fallen, but from imbalance rather than pain. This reality banishes the last of Thorin's uncertain denial and leaves his insides hollow. Now empty, it is easy for rage to burn within, as sudden and inevitable as a fire after a drought.

"Alright?" Thorin hisses as his mouth twists into an ugly sneer, as his hands abandon Bilbo's ripped clothing to come up and capture Bilbo's wrists in an iron grip. Bilbo's gaze darts from Thorin's face, to his imprisoned wrists, and back. To Bilbo's credit, or perhaps his foolishness, he does not test the strength of his sudden shackles. "You could have died!"

"What?" Bilbo's brows furrow in confusion. "Well—yes, I suppose I could have, but—"

A wordless snarl claws its way out of Thorin's throat to cut Bilbo off savagely. Bilbo's eyes go round and his jaw falls slack; when Thorin abruptly stands, he is too surprised by Thorin's mercurial shift in temperament to protest the rough way Thorin drags him to his feet.

Through the drumming of blood in his ears, Thorin is dimly aware of the other members of the company; Kíli whispers something into Fíli's ear that makes Fíli grin filthily; Glóin shrugs and asks Balin if he should perhaps start a fire; Dwalin places a staying hand on Bofur's shoulder as the worry-faced dwarf tries to reach for Bilbo; and when Ori asks his brothers, "Where is Master Thorin taking Master Bilbo?", Nori coughs suspiciously into his fist while Dori replies sharply, "Mind your manners!"

Bilbo stumbles as Thorin half-leads, half-drags him away from the others. Thorin's grasp is awkwardly placed, high on the underside of Bilbo's arm, where the limb attaches to his torso, and it upsets Bilbo's balance. Bilbo does not manage to find his feet once in their short trek. His bare toes knock into small rocks and his heels skitter across the loose sediment. "Thorin!" he gasps as he struggles to find purchase, the empathy in his voice being slowly replaced by irritation. "What are you—Thorin, stop— _Thorin!_ "

Thorin stops when they are a stone's throw away. Still filled with rough desperation and the fierceness battle inspires, Thorin pitches his hobbit to the rocky earth. It is not for Bilbo's modesty that he picks a spot behind the scant coverage of a mountain shrub, but his own possessiveness, so that only he may see Bilbo as he grabs the tattered remains of Bilbo's moss green waistcoat and linen shirt, and rends the fabric in two.

"Thorin!" Bilbo shouts, wriggling like a fish between Thorin's thighs. His tiny fists beat Thorin's chest. The blows are painless and dull through Thorin's thick armor and cloying adrenaline. All of the comfort has gone from Bilbo's expression; his mouth and eyes are pinched with anger and confusion. "What has gotten into you?"

Even in the weak mountain sunlight, the gash on Bilbo's pale and hairless belly is stark. Logically, Thorin knows that the cut is shallow and that Bilbo is relatively unharmed, but his stubborn heart clings to the terror that swallowed him when he saw the orc's blade descend. He is overwhelmed and possessed by the need to touch every inch of Bilbo's skin, to reassure himself that Bilbo is as unbroken and alive as he seems, to drown his unreasonable fear with surety.

"You should not have risked yourself so carelessly," Thorin snarls as he manhandles Bilbo out of the remains of his tattered garments. Thankfully, blessedly, Bilbo does not struggle against the removal of his clothes. His trust is implicit, undeserved, and arousing.

"I risk myself for you, you great oaf!" Bilbo snaps back, teeth bared even as he raises his arms so Thorin can yank the linen down over his round shoulders, his soft inner elbows, his dainty wrists. His small hands are shaking, scared—not of Thorin, but of his brush with death. The reality of how close he had been finally sinks in.

The fine tremors and Bilbo's slow-dawning epiphany do not stop Thorin. Indeed, they only serve to fuel the fire burning in the pit of his gut, and he all but roars, "I never asked for that!" and flings the offending tatters of Bilbo's clothes aside.

Without the hindrance of fabric, Thorin scratches lines of red down Bilbo's chest, from throat to navel. Bilbo hisses through clenched teeth when Thorin's nails catch on the shallow cut that runs ragged across his stomach, and the muscles beneath the stubborn fat on his belly jump. Thorin shrugs the heavy fur mantle from his shoulders as he leans back to watch the lines darken on the halfling's skin.

"Loyalty is something you earn," Bilbo replies tartly. His narrow chest heaves and his eyes are as dark as wet earth. His tongue flickers over his bottom lip and his small, soft fingers dig sharply into the heavy curve of Thorin's thighs, stinging even through the dense layers. "It is not something you ask for."

"I do not want it!"

"You have it, all the same!"

With the same regard and haste he had shown Bilbo's clothing, Thorin removes his fur and leather surcoat, unclasps his sword and belt, removes his vambraces, pulls his velvet surcoat and heavy armored brigandine over his head, and unlaces his blue over-tunic and worn under-tunic. Weapons and steel and leather and wool fall indiscriminately aside; all that preoccupies Thorin's mind is how badly he _wants_. Once all save his boots and trousers are removed, the latter hanging precariously on his thick hips, he shifts his weight forward, braces his forearms on either side of Bilbo's head, and fists both hands tightly in Bilbo's curls.

"I will show you what I have," Thorin hisses, a moment before he drags Bilbo into a demanding, brutal kiss.

During their previous encounters—from the tentative flirtations as they headed eastward, to their honeyed caresses in Rivendell—Thorin has always been gentle with Bilbo. He is much taller, much stronger, and much heavier than his hobbit, and while he knows that hobbits are hardy folk, it is oftentimes a difficult thing to remember. Bilbo is just as tall as the shortest of dwarves, and Thorin is tallest amongst his kind; it would be remiss of Thorin to hurt Bilbo with carelessness.

Beyond his wary caution, the fact remains that Thorin likes to take his time. He likes to watch Bilbo unravel beneath his touch, to watch Bilbo's body shudder with the pleasures Thorin bestows. If Thorin is of stone, then Bilbo is of earth; where Thorin is inflexible, Bilbo yields much. Their time together is often Thorin's only reprieve from the crippling responsibility of his quest and the terrible fear that he might fail his people and his forefathers.

Now, Thorin takes Bilbo without regard. He bites, ravenous, at Bilbo's sweet mouth. When Bilbo gasps, Thorin pushes inside. He licks the back of Bilbo's teeth and the hard, ridged palate just beyond; he forces Bilbo's mouth wider and wider until he must ache. Bilbo does not seem to care. Indeed, he matches Thorin's ardor and presses his slick, hot tongue to Thorin's with an ever-surprising fierceness.

Their kisses are battles, and the passionate war lasts for an age. Thorin's jaw is terribly sore when he pulls back. Desperately—wantonly—or perhaps unable to concede retreat—Bilbo tries to follow, but the tight grip Thorin has in his curls prevents him from moving.

A moan breaks over Bilbo's ravaged mouth.

"You—" Thorin inhales sharply and, with great deliberateness, tightens his hold further. Though the grip must hurt, Bilbo's moan jumps into a whine. "You like it—"

Enthralled and darkly curious, Thorin releases the tension in his fingers only to tug on the dirty curls again, quick and cruel. Lustfully, Bilbo cries out. His body writhes within the cage of Thorin's limbs and his hips buck futilely. A slowly forming conclusion settles inside Thorin's bones.

"You want it," Thorin marvels, though his tone is malicious rather than reverent, and the words are like gravel in his throat.

"Yes," Bilbo keens, his eyes dark and hooded, his swollen mouth glistening with spit. The familiarity of his expression does little to remove the knife-sharp edge of arousal that stabs Thorin low in his gut. Like pain, it razes every nerve along his spine before it burrows into the base of his skull.

Still, he must be sure. "You do not mind—"

"Thorin!" Bilbo gasps, irritation marring his smooth brow and cloudy eyes. His fingers dig into the muscle of Thorin's chest. "Do not be so dense—"

Thus assuaged, Thorin descends once more and snatches the insult from Bilbo's lips before it can be finished, as though to bite the words apart into syllables and swallow them down. This brutality does not devolve into a kiss. Rather, Thorin tries to devour the sweetness of Bilbo's mouth—Bilbo, never passive contrary to his softness, returns the passion with equal fervor—until his jaw protests and his lungs are starved of air. He breaks away, panting.

Even beneath the gray sunlight, Bilbo's swollen and spit-slick mouth is obvious. His cheeks are red and sensitive from the unforgiving scrape of Thorin's short beard. When his eyes flutter open, the black of his pupils have overtaken the slate gray of his irises.

It is not enough.

Thorin turns his attentions southward. He scrapes his incisors over the curve of Bilbo's chin and presses his tongue to the soft skin below; he nips the line of Bilbo's round jaw but deliberately does not soothe the sting; he follows the tendons in Bilbo's neck down to his clavicles, where he worries the bone until he can see the indentation of his teeth in Bilbo's pale flesh.

Thorin spends an obscene amount of time sucking bruises into Bilbo's tender skin. He labors at each mark until the salty taste of sweat is overridden by the ferric taste of ruptured capillaries, again and again, until Bilbo's throat and chest are covered—only then does Thorin pull away to inspect his work. The plethora of scattered, haematic bruises, like a broken string of the deepest and purest rubies, make the long cut on Bilbo's torso look insignificant.

"Cease your cruelty!" Bilbo gasps as Thorin rolls one of his hobbit's flat nipples between his teeth. Bilbo's eyelashes are satisfyingly damp. "Thorin—you arrogant—pompous—wretched—stop teasing!"

If the circumstances were different—if Bilbo did not sound so wrecked and Thorin was not so unsteady—Thorin might have pulled away with a smile on his face and a laugh deep in his chest, and playfully mocked Bilbo for attempting to command a king. But circumstances being what they are, Thorin ignores Bilbo's pleas, and plays with Bilbo's nipples until the small peaks are raw.

"Oh—oh goodness," Bilbo blabbers, frustrated, his small fingers clenched in the thick hair at the base of Thorin's skull. "I'll be sore for days—"

Thorin imagines the look of discomfort on Bilbo's face, how sensitive and receptive his nipples will be—even the faint touch of linen will walk the line of pleasure and pain—and growls, " _Good._ "

Though Thorin is fully and painfully erect, his arousal is secondary to his desire to see Bilbo undone. He does not pause to mourn the sweet cradle of Bilbo's thighs when he pushes away to remove Bilbo's dirty trousers and smallclothes, and when Bilbo's cerise cock is exposed, Thorin's dick pulses. Thorin presses the heel of his hand firmly against his cockhead; it will be the only concession he allows.

"On your hands and knees," Thorin grunts as he grabs Bilbo's stuttering hips, thumbs firmly in the hollows of Bilbo's pelvis. "Then spread your legs."

Bilbo's teeth dig into the plump of his bottom lip as he obeys, as though he were trying to hold in broken noises that Thorin feels vibrating in the cage of Bilbo's lungs. Bilbo does gasp when he is turned over; in arousal as Thorin nudges his thighs further apart, or in protest as his uncalloused palms and delicate knees meet the unforgiving ground, Thorin does not know, or care. He is too entranced by the knobs of Bilbo's sinuous spine, the unmarred golden expanse of Bilbo's back, and the way Bilbo's round buttock fits perfectly into the bowl of his palm.

"Mahal," Thorin swears as he spreads Bilbo's ass and exposes his dusky entrance. He drags a thumb across the crinkle of skin, and the rough pad of Thorin's finger catches the dryness of Bilbo's hole and pulls it teasingly.

"Oh," Bilbo chokes.

Thorin presses his thumb more firmly against Bilbo's hole. The muscle flutters against the touch, a satisfying and pleasing sight made doubly so when it is meant for Thorin and Thorin alone.

Briefly, Thorin thinks of the phial of oil in his pack, back with the company and the temporary camp they have undoubtedly begun to set up, which he has always used to ease their coupling. Thorin's cock is as long as his hand, thick and fat enough to be proud and boastful of, and its size is only exaggerated by Bilbo's narrower frame. In the unnerving quiet and calm of Rivendell, when he and Bilbo had first lain together, Thorin had worried that his girth would be too much.

His doubts were unfounded.

"We hobbits enjoy simple pleasures," Bilbo had purred, his grin pleased and startlingly sly when Thorin sank completely into Bilbo's deceitfully welcoming body. He wound his small fingers into Thorin's chest hair and canted his hips expertly, as he pulled Thorin down to whisper in his ear, "And this is the simplest pleasure of all."

Now, Thorin ignores Bilbo's comfort as he pushes his thumb into Bilbo. It takes an unexpected amount of force to sink down to the second knuckle, and Bilbo cries out sharply. His hips wriggle with the discomfort.

_Just like that,_ Thorin thinks unkindly as Bilbo squirms, as the corners of his mouth quirk upwards in dark satisfaction. He wants to hurt Bilbo; not for the sadistic pleasure it might bring him, but so his ministrations might smother the psychological terror if the orc had been any closer. In Thorin's mind, it is far better for Bilbo to be sore and raw by his hand than face the creeping shadow of what might have passed.

Thorin keeps his thumb firmly seated as Bilbo adjusts. Already Bilbo's hole has flushed from soft pink to crimson; it spasms around the intrusion, unconsciously clenching and unclenching as Bilbo's hips sway gently from side to side. Thorin keeps Bilbo's ass spread to keep the view unobstructed, to watch and wait as Bilbo relaxes in sure and steady increments.

Bilbo's tightness does not abate before his patience. "More," Bilbo whines as he hitches hips upward. His spine curves impossibly, as though to entice Thorin further—as if Thorin needs encouragement, when the want to fuck Bilbo until they both shake apart sings in his blood and settles in his bones.

"Beg for it," Thorin snarls, even as he pulls out until only the crest of his thumb remains. He keeps it there, stretching Bilbo uncomfortably wide without the pleasure of being filled, until Bilbo sobs, "More, more, Thorin, _please,_ I need more—"

Thorin pushes his thumb back inside with a cruel twist of his wrist, his hand sliding off Bilbo's asscheek, over his chubby thigh, and to his front. His other fingers curl around Bilbo's sac; he squeezes Bilbo's balls tight, just hard enough flicker between uncomfortable and painful. Then, after a moment of searching, he pushes the pad of his thumb as hard as he can against Bilbo's prostate.

"Ahhh!" Bilbo cries, and the sound echoes even in the thin mountain air.

Thorin milks Bilbo without pause. He rubs tight, firm circles against the anterior wall of Bilbo's passage and is deeply gratified by how Bilbo's hips jerk and sway, unable to decide on whether to push against the touch or pull away from it, and how the muscles between his shoulders tremble beneath the thin veneer of his flesh. Thorin can see Bilbo's ribs work as frantic mewls escape Bilbo's mouth at irregular intervals; the high and misleadingly innocent noises make Thorin's skin feel too small.

As Thorin fucks Bilbo mercilessly with the thick of his thumb, he chews the inside of his cheek so his mouth floods with saliva. Bilbo whines when Thorin pulls out entirely; Thorin ignores him, spreads Bilbo's cheeks, leans down to Bilbo's hole, and spits. He does not stop until Bilbo is wet and his mouth is dry.

There is a generous enough amount of slick for Thorin to attempt two fingers—his pointer and middle finger—though it is still a vague struggle to fit both inside. Bilbo bears down to ease the pressure. The exertion and pleasure finally force him from his hands to his elbows, and he rests his cheek on his forearm.

"Thorin," Bilbo murmurs when Thorin can go no further, his entrance clamped greedily around the thickness. "Oh, that's—Thorin, will you please—" Thorin crooks his fingers, and, "—oh yes, yes, right there, please—!"

Thorin is rougher with these thrusts. He angles his fingers and relentlessly attacks Bilbo's prostate on every outward drag. Bilbo's hole is puffy and red around Thorin, and the penetration must hurt—has to hurt, has to burn—but the vice-like tightness eases with every passing second.

"Made for me," Thorin growls as he digs his nails into the sweet curve of Bilbo's ass. "Made for my fingers, made for my cock. Mine to take—mine to break—mine to keep."

Bilbo sobs wordlessly. In Rivendell, he had confessed to an unintentional abstinence in the years between his youth and the present; any pleasure he had experienced had been at his own hand, with his fingers or his toys. And while Thorin had not been the first to offer such intimate companionship in the twenty years, he is the first Bilbo has accepted. To know that he is the sole reason Bilbo's body opens so beautifully makes Thorin's head light.

Again and again, Thorin repeats the sequence of actions: he chews the inside of his cheek, spits the excess over Bilbo's convulsing hole, and fucks Bilbo with his fingers as Bilbo begs and cries, twists and writhes. He does not manage to fit a third inside—his patience and determination to see it done are limited—and stretches Bilbo until his cheeks are raw and his hand cramps.

Two fingers and a scant coat of spit are poor substitutes for the slow stretch of three slopping with oil, but Thorin's resolve has begun to steadily crumble beneath the force of his arousal. He removes his fingers from Bilbo's body, grips his shaft, and guides his eager dick to Bilbo's hole. For a moment, Bilbo's entrance does not accept the blunt cockhead; then, with more force than Thorin usually has to exert, he is inside.

Bilbo becomes an unmoving, rigid line as Thorin pushes. Deeper and deeper he goes, until the crest of his hipbones are flush with Bilbo's plump ass, and his balls are snug in the cradle of their conjoined bodies. The sensation of being swallowed to the root is overwhelming. The velvety, melting heat beyond the frantic grasp of Bilbo's hole has Thorin gasping; he has to cease all movement, or risk ending prematurely. Still as stone, Thorin squeezes his eye shut and grits his teeth as he wills his release away.

After an age of silence and deep breathing, Thorin opens his eyes. He is not surprised to find that Bilbo is as still as the mountain peaks that surround them. He cannot imagine how his cock must feel inside his hobbit: unmalleable, pitiless, and impossible.

If Bilbo's obvious discomfort did not ensnare Thorin so, he would wait until Bilbo adjusted to move. He would whisper sweet and insubstantial nothings as he stroked Bilbo's thick sides, and place tender kisses upon Bilbo's shaking shoulders. Yet knowing that Bilbo is uncomfortable—that he is entirely focused on Thorin's fully seated cock, unable to breath for the way it presses inside him—renews the terrible fever that motivated Thorin to take Bilbo in the first place.

Gripping the supple curve of Bilbo's waist, Thorin rolls his hips, shallow and controlled, until he feels the involuntary give of Bilbo's entrance. It is not loose enough to be comfortable for either of them, but it is enough for Thorin to move as he pleases. Predatory triumph and pride stretches his mouth wide; the action bares all his teeth, a travesty of a smile. He thrusts sharply, one-two-three times just because he can, before he drapes his much larger body over Bilbo's back. Bilbo's naked skin is cool against the hairy furnace of Thorin's torso.

"You're mine," Thorin rumbles, his words slurred and mouth sloppy against Bilbo's cheek. Thorin is tall enough—or perhaps Bilbo is small enough—that he can hook his strong chin over Bilbo's rounded shoulder and press his face into Bilbo's filthy hair, and inhale the rich, heavy smell of sweat and dirt from days of upon days of journeying that lingers in the curls. Thorin prefers the earthy scent of grit over the floral bath oils Bilbo used in Rivendell; lavender and chamomile does not suit Bilbo, and Thorin had wrinkled his nose at the delicate blend clinging to Bilbo's skin.

Bilbo trembles as sweetly as a bell beneath Thorin when Thorin runs his teeth over the sensitive crest of his ear. Despite the fine tremors, Bilbo is yet unmoving, neither pushing back nor pulling away; Bilbo will bear it, then, and Thorin growls hotly, "You will not come until I say."

Before Bilbo can reply, Thorin begins to fuck him in earnest. He gathers Bilbo's crossed wrists in one hand and places his other upon the rough ground for balance; Thorin cannot thrust as deeply as he could have if he remained upright, but it is of small consequence. In this position, Thorin can place his mouth and teeth upon Bilbo's skin and gift him even more crimson bruises, can feel how the muscles in Bilbo's back shift, and can be assured that Bilbo is safe within the cage of his arms.

And that is more satisfying than the deepest thrust could be.

Bilbo is a mess underneath Thorin, unable to do much more than wriggle and plead. His previous silence has devolved into clumsy words and wet gasps; his entire body quakes as Thorin rocks in and out of him. Bilbo cannot come without being touched—as prettily as he responds to being fucked, Thorin has not had the time to train him to find release by that pleasure alone—and Thorin refuses to give it to him. Why should he? Bilbo needs to be broken before he can be fixed, and Thorin is the only one who can replace the distress that filled him with a much sweeter emotion.

Thorin fucks Bilbo steadily: hard, but not hard enough, and deep, but not deep enough. It feels as though he could continue their carnal dance for eternity, until the mountains were swallowed by the sea and all the stars in the sky dimmed and fell to the earth. His searing lungs and tremoring muscles are secondary to his desire, which flays him, like a blunt knife trying to scrape the thin covering off his bones. The longer he staves off his release, the more difficult it is to come. The stagnation makes him want to roar in frustration.

There is such a thunderous buzzing in his skull that Thorin does not hear Bilbo sob, "I want you to," until the sentence has been repeated several times. "I want you to—to fuck me—to hurt me—take me please—I am yours—please—I cannot—I want—fuck, fuck—please—I'll do anything—I'll never—ever—I'll never ever leave you—"

With those final words— _I'll never ever leave you_ —a terrible fear floods Thorin's chest. The terror that gripped Thorin as the orc's blade descended returns; without adrenaline and purpose, it is more potent than it had originally been. All the air is expelled from Thorin's lungs as his blood freezes in his veins and his heart seizes. Suddenly, he wants—needs—to be even closer to his fussy and ill-suited, brilliant and brave hobbit. Indeed, if there were some way to take Bilbo inside himself and share the same skin, Thorin would not hesitate to do it.

However, the closest Thorin can get is this: he peels himself off Bilbo's body, pulls Bilbo into his lap as shifts his weight backwards, and rearranges Bilbo's legs so the soft outer curve of his thighs press against Thorin's inner thighs, and Bilbo's reddened knees knock against Thorin's still trouser-clad patellae. Rearranged thus, Thorin wraps one heavy arm around Bilbo's waist, covers the entirety of Bilbo's shallow wound with his burly forearm and wide palm, and press the heel of his other hand low on Bilbo's stomach. Bilbo's head rolls back onto Thorin's shoulder; once again, Thorin buries his nose into the curls, and breathes until the panic has subsided.

"Thorin—" Bilbo begs, when Thorin does not move inside of him. " _Thorin—_ "

"Touch yourself," Thorin commands.

Bilbo fists his cock with both hands, and jerks himself brutally. _His pleasure and pain must be indistinguishable,_ Thorin thinks distantly as he watches the head of Bilbo's cock pop over the ring of his hobbit's small fingers, purple-red and leaking, _exquisite and excruciating._

Thorin is not surprised when Bilbo spills quickly. Between the new angle, which allows Thorin's dick to push hard against Bilbo's prostate, and Bilbo's desperate fisting, it seems miraculous that he lasted even half a minute. A mangled cry escapes Bilbo's slack mouth; his muscles become as rigid as iron; his body pulses in time with the involuntary twitches of his finished and spurting cock; and as Bilbo's channel spasms around him, Thorin follows his hobbit without warning.

It hurts. Not like being stabbed hurts, or how a shattered bone or torn ligament does, but deeply and achingly and sweetly, like a bruise being prodded or a muscle being stretched too far. He tightens his hold on Bilbo further and grits his teeth as the sensation of letting go punches through him. The hurt nearly overwhelms the pleasure, and when Thorin is spent, so too is his anger and denial.

Bilbo says nothing when Thorin makes no effort to release him, nor when Thorin shifts so that Bilbo is tucked more firmly against his chest. Quietly, he rests—satiated, rather than meek—as Thorin keeps him in his arms, as Thorin's prick softens slowly and Thorin's seed leaks out gently. No words are spoken when Thorin begins to shiver; and Bilbo, aware, perhaps, that it is not the cold mountain air that causes Thorin to shake, but rather the hard realization that Bilbo's fate could have been much worse, covers one of Thorin's clutching hands with both of his own.

They remained entwined for a long time. Bilbo hums a broken melody as the tackiness of their flesh disappears and leaves naught but salt; Thorin closes his eyes and breathes in the rich smell of sweat and earth, travel and sex that lingers on the slope where Bilbo's shoulder meets his neck. He tries to reassure himself by imagining the armor he would craft for Bilbo: a fitted brigandine made of the softest leather and finest steel, filigreed vambraces and greaves that would make even the most skilled smith envious, and unique sabatons to protect his normally exposed feet.

It is a baseless reassurance, as Thorin has neither the time nor a forge, and the best protection he can offer Bilbo is his own. Still, armor is armor is armor, be it shaped metal or thick leather. He turns the idea over and over in his head, until the rigidity in his fingers has lessened.

"You will need armor," Thorin tells Bilbo seriously, once they have separated, though only far enough for Bilbo to turn around in Thorin's lap and rest his head upon Thorin's chest. His small fingers are toying with the silver aglet at the end of one of Thorin's braids. "But I do not know when or how to obtain something in your size."

"That is just as well," Bilbo responds, his voice as light as a joke, "because I could never wear something so heavy."

Thorin does not scold Bilbo for his levity. All his emotion has been drained from his body, like blood from a rabbit caught for supper, and he feels empty, but clean. Besides, Bilbo's words resound with simple truth; Bilbo is still unaccustomed to weight of the short sword at his side, let alone the heaviness of brigandine or plate armor. In the end, armor would be more hindrance than help.

Eventually, Bilbo's skin becomes gooseflesh, and they reluctantly untangle the mess of their limbs to redress. Thorin loans Bilbo his blue over-tunic when Bilbo picks his torn garments off the ground and frowns at the gashes.

"I know that I am ill-suited to this journey," Bilbo says as he pulls Thorin's clothing over his head. Thorin's gaze snaps from the hem, which falls nearly to Bilbo's knees, to Bilbo's face. Bilbo returns his stare without difficulty; Bilbo's refusal to be intimidated is one of the many reasons Thorin cares for him more than is perhaps wise. "I am accustomed to my life at Bag End, and I am no warrior. This I knew. It was—it _is_ —a risk I am willing to take."

"And what if I am not willing?"

Thorin's demand is met with a patient smile. "It is a long way back to Rivendell, and even further to the Shire," Bilbo replies. "Besides, if I had not taken such a risk, I would not have come to know you as I do now. And that, my dear dwarf, is more unbearable than any danger."

Thorin wants to disagree. He wants to remind Bilbo that they have been ambushed once by trolls and twice by orcs, that even if they encounter no more foes en route, they still have to contend with a sleeping dragon, but the warnings wither to dust on his tongue. There is not much else Thorin can do, save for force Bilbo to return to the Shire—but that is just as bad as death, for Bilbo would not forgive Thorin the disrespect of disregarding his choices, and the offense would take Bilbo from him just as surely.

So instead of giving argument, Thorin takes Bilbo's hand and presses a fierce kiss to his soft palm, and prays to the Maker that Bilbo's luck preserves.

"Stop your silliness," Bilbo admonishes gently, even as he rises to tiptoe and kisses the end of Thorin's nose. "I can hear your thoughts as clearly as though you have spoken them."

"It's not silliness," Thorin mutters.

"Nevertheless, you will stop such nonsense immediately." Bilbo sniffs, mock-haughtily. The way he twists his fingers to intertwine with Thorin's belies his tone. "After you have done so, we will return to the company, fill our bellies with some terrible cram and passable soup, and then you are going to keep me company whilst I mend my shirt and vest. You may not tease me at all, especially about how my gentle lifestyle has educated me in the art of sewing..."

And if Thorin's gaze slides from Bilbo's animated face to his belly every few seconds as they make their way back to camp, Bilbo says nothing about it.


	2. a pretty thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally meant to be another story, but I didn't have it in me to write another 5k of porn.
> 
> So have a brief epilogue?

When Smaug has been driven from Erebor and slain by a single arrow, Thorin finds a mithril shirt tossed upon the ground.

The mail had been abandoned among the gold and rubies as though it were an old, unimportant linen shift. It gleams like a small star in the light cast by Thorin's torch, and it makes all the treasure it rests upon look dull and cheap.

Though it is not unknown to him, Thorin does not recognize the mithril for what it is immediately, for he has never seen so much of the precious metal devoted to a single item. Mithril—so rare and tenfold the worth of gold—is used in hair-beads and rings and chains, small daggers and sword hilts and crowns, while mithril armor is the sort of thing one only hears of in fantasy and legend. In this age, no one would be able to amass enough mithril to make such a thing, and no more could be mined, not since Durin's Bane drove the dwarves from Khazad-dûm nearly a thousand years past. Only contemplation brings Thorin clarity, to fill him with growing disbelief and awe.

Setting his torch aside, Thorin gathers the mithril coat with both hands. Though it is probably the most valuable item beneath the mountain, save for the Arkenstone, its monetary worth will only occur to Thorin much later, and by then it will be of no consequence. Instead, what entrances him most when he removes it from its mismatched cradle of gold, is its surprising weightlessness.

Instant and unbidden, a memory follows the heels of Thorin's surprise. He remembers Bilbo's first brush with death in the Misty Mountains, and the thin scratch that wandered across Bilbo's torso, and the way Bilbo joked about being unable to wear the kind of armor dwarves did.

_I could never wear something so heavy,_ Bilbo had said.

It is obvious that the mithril shirt had been made for broad shoulders and thick arms, and finished so that the hem would fall where trousers typically began. It would be tight on the average dwarf—any wide range movements, like swinging an axe or drawing a sword, would be restricted by thousands upon thousands of constrictive chains—but if the fine designs at the throat are any indication, it was probably only worn as ceremonial dress. The immobility of the garment would outweigh the protective strength of the mithril; it would be poor decision for any dwarves in the company to wear it.

But for a hobbit…

On Bilbo's body, the mithril shirt would make a fine hauberk. The half-sleeves would fall to his elbows; the hem would stop above his thighs; and though the neck would be generous, it would not be wide enough to slip off his shoulders. _Once it is on his person, Bilbo will pick at the delicate links,_ Thorin thinks with fond exasperation, even as he imagines how the white-silver color of the mithril would bring out the warm golden hues of the hobbit's skin and hair.

With that final thought, the mithril shirt is Bilbo's.

Thorin bundles the unique garment and stows it inside his fur-lined surcoat. Thus secured, he temporarily forsakes his search for the Arkenstone, and heads back to the small area the company has cleared for sleep. There are rooms they could use, perhaps, but the fourteen of them have been a unit for so long that the habit is difficult to break. Thorin nods in Balin's direction when the older dwarf greets him, then motions for Bilbo to come to him.

Bilbo does not ask where Thorin leads them, his trust explicit and silent. Thorin leads him through the old halls, deeper and deeper into the mountain, until Thorin finds an old, familiar room. Despite the undisturbed layer of dust, it is as he remembers: grand high ceilings, rich tapestries along the walls, and an old bed filled with goose feathers and dried lavender. The sheets are still undone, crumpled over a century ago as he rose with the morning bells that echoed through the mountain.

"I have a token for you," Thorin says gently, turning away from his past. "If you would remove your garments?"

With no more than a moment's hesitation and a curious, sideways glance, Bilbo sheds his too-big, borrowed blue coat—he has rolled up the cuffs so that the sleeves do not slip over his hands—and the linen shirt he has worn since the company left the Shire, which has been mended and patched and stained beyond respectability. When he stands bare, in naught but his woolen trousers, Thorin presents his gift.

"It is called mithril," Thorin murmurs as Bilbo's eyes widen in surprise. "It is stronger than steel and lighter than silk. It is for you—it shall keep you safe."

"For me?" Bilbo parrots. His fingers, which had alighted on the untarnished white metal, jerk away as though burned. "Thorin, I cannot accept this—"

Thorin silences Bilbo's protests with a tender kiss. He does not tell Bilbo that he is glad to part with the precious coat if it does the invaluable service of keeping the hobbit alive. So far in their journey, Bilbo's greatest armor has been his luck. By Mahal's blessing it has held fast, but Thorin knows and fears that such great luck can be fickle and unreliable.

"Consider it part of your share, if you must, if you cannot accept it as a gift from me," Thorin says once he has pulled away, "but it is yours, now."

Bilbo's gaze wanders from Thorin's serious face to the mithril shirt in his hands. The metal is already body-warm from Thorin's touch, so unlike chill iron and steel; Bilbo will be able to wear it over his naked skin and hide it beneath unsuspecting layers of linen and leather.

For a long moment, Bilbo hesitantly stares at the gift. Thorin stands as still as the unmovable mountain, barely daring to breath, until Bilbo's features soften into acceptance.

"It is a pretty thing, and I shall look ridiculous wearing it," Bilbo jokes with a weak smile. He takes a step forward, but he does not take the mithril coat from Thorin; instead, he runs his hand from Thorin's temple to the curve of Thorin's jaw. "But I understand what this means to you, and I know better than to argue."

Relief floods Thorin and a great weight falls from his shoulders. He knows that their reclamation of the mountain will not be without consequence; how steep, he cannot fathom, but in the very least, the mithril will protect Bilbo, if luck and Thorin cannot.

"Well then," Bilbo murmurs, a gleam in his eye that cannot be attributed to the glittering torchlight. "Would you like me to put the armor on now, or later?"

"Minx," Thorin accuses with a grin that makes Bilbo laugh happily and draw Thorin in for another kiss. In favor of Bilbo's soft mouth, Thorin lets the mithril fall from his hands to the dusty floor.

It will keep.


End file.
